J. King: The abduction

Piergeiron knelt beside the slain man, and both were shadowed beneath Madieron, who had appeared out of nowhere. The pixie held back a garnering crowd.

Piergeiron pulled the sheep's head mask from the dead man. He gazed down at a white, hair-lipped visage with blond curls and a hawkish nose.

"Terrance Decamber-undersecretary to the Master Mariner's Guild." said Piergeiron heavily.

With shapeshifters at large in the castle and nobles and guildmasters plotting on all sides, Piergeiron could confide in very few, Eidola reduced the possible ranks even farther. She routinely balked at Piergeiron's overprotectiveness, and even now she would certainly forbid him to enlist the aid of others.

But enlist he would. She did not need to know of her defenders until she needed their defence-which might be soon enough.

First, of course, was the inimitable Blackstaff. Khelben was no shapeshifting imposter; the Lord Mage of Waterdeep had a way of dispensing with imitators. He had already been aiding in security; his cursory scans at the gates had turned up plenty of weapons and minor magics. Now Khelben sought much greater and subtler sorceries, the sorts of elaborate wards that usually go undetected. Such protections might hide a shapechanger, or a whole platoon of them. The Lord Mage was even now combing the crowd of guests, servants, and guards.

Next came Madieron Sunderstone. Most shapeshifters could not imitate creatures his size. Even to try, they would have to overcome the blond-haired man-mountain-no small feat. Besides, the man's combination of dull wits and deep wisdom would defy duplication. Rergeiron was confident that the Madieron who had greeted him in his apartments this morning was the same man who stood by him now-and would stay at his side until he met Eidola at the altar.

Then, there was Captain Rulathon, Piergeiron's secondin-command of the city watch. This black mustachioed warrior was no imitation, either, for Khelben himself had teleported him in for the briefing. His expertise at subtle reconnaissance was matched only by his knowledge of the folk of Waterdeep. Few impostors could sneak past him.

And, last-Noph Nesher. No shapeshifter would have thought to take his form, and the noble youth had already proved his worth. He had eavesdropped on various conspirators and had gathered the first hard evidence-a bit of fabric torn from one of them. Piergeiron, Madieron, Rulathon. and Noph met in a small vestibule off the palace kitchens. It was just the sort of unfinished and unwelcoming space that often hatched conspiracies, whispered plans that would shake continents.

Rulathon listened closely, his black hair flaring wildly about his intent face. Noph tried to look equally focused, though a thin film of sweat glistened on his white brow. Madieron’s expression was ponderous and a bit vacant amid the dark and rough-hewn rafters.

The Open Lord recounted what he had learned from the conspirators. "There is treason in it. It is no simple matter of impersonating a maid or whispers in the corners. It is a kidnapping plot, or assassination, or some such. And as yet, I still do not know who precisely is behind it all. At best, the shapeshifters are chaotic creatures working on their own, and Decamber was acting outside the orders of the mariners. At worst, these conspiracies might reach deep into the ranks of Waterdeep's nobles and guilds."

“The mariners have plenty of reasons to block an overland trade route," Captain Rulathon noted grimly.

"Yes," agreed Piergeiron," but so would many other folk. Whoever is behind it all, I am convinced that the trade route to Kara-Tur is key."

"I came to the same conclusion," Noph interrupted. The other three turned their attention on him, as he smiled sheepishly. "It's where the money leads. Somebody wants to prevent the signing of the pact-prevent it or control it. I personally suspect the Master Mariners above all others."

Piergeiron regarded the youth keenly. "Even if there weren't shapeshifters running amok," he said, "I would have had to be very selective in whom I put my trust. Out of all Waterdeep, I have selected you three, and Khelben "

"But any of us could be…" Noph began. He broke off with the shaking of Captain Rulathon's head.

"Be assured we are not, son," said the watch captain. "Be assured and be glad. Our forms may not have been stolen from us yet, but watch out! I imagine that before the night is through, we will be running into ourselves walking down the hall, or fighting ourselves on some stair somewhere."

Noph swallowed loudly, simultaneously relieved and dismayed.

Piergeiron picked up the thread of the discussion. "I need each of you, my ears and eyes where I cannot be. Rulathon, first and foremost, you must guard my bride and see that no harm comes to her. Noph, you must watch the guests for telltale signs of treason. Madieron, of course, will be watching me. Khelben is already at work, scanning the crowd. All of you have been doing these things. Now I make your commissions official."

The Open Lord paused. A wave of exhaustion, unexpected, swept over him- "Friends, this is a maze from which Eidola and I cannot escape alone. With plots upon plots upon plots, perhaps we will not survive, even with your aid."

"So you will still marry Eidola tonight?" Captain Rulathon asked.

"I will," Piergeiron replied, resolute. "Whatever these plots, they are wrapped up in the wedding and in this trade route. The conspirators' work would already be done if I cancelled the ceremony now."

“I imagine your bride is of like mind," said the captain. He turned. "Perhaps I should make certain of it," Bowing once in farewell, he headed away, toward Eidola‘s chambers. “I go to watch "

"Good," Piergeiron said. His very serious gaze spoke a silent thanks to the tall warrior.

Then Piergeiron turned those same eyes-those that had gazed into the abyss of Undermountain and across at the glorious panoply of Waterdeep-upon Noph. "Rulathon's work is begun-and Madieron's and Knelben's, also. I count on yours, too. If you help Eidola and me win our way out of these traps, the whole of Waterdeep will owe you a debt of gratitude." The lad nodded seriously. In respectful imitation of Rulathon, he said, "I go to watch." Noph turned and slipped away down the hall, toward the sounds of dancing.

"Your autographs here. Gentles " said the Open Lord of Waterdeep.

He leaned over his large mahogany desk and placed the much-signed trade pact before the last holdout delegates: the Boarskyrs.

The two red-faced and burly brothers, Becil and Bullaid, had inherited title and lands from a great-great-great-greatgrandfather Boarskyr-the man who'd built the first Boarskyr bridge. Each succeeding generation that descended from this extraordinary man, though, had lost another "great" Becil and Bullard were the inevitable result. They could not be truthfully called good, let atone great

The brothers had not inherited their ancestor's enterprising spirit or even his common sense. Uneducated and mired in penury, Becil and Billiard could use the opportunity and money the trade route would bring them. Unfortunately, they liked their backward backwater and wanted to keep it as it was. Perhaps it was the only place they truly fit in,

Here, in Piergeiron's cherry wood-panelled study, the two looked and smelled as out of place and nervous as sheepdogs caught in me slaughter chute.

Their mood was not helped by Madieron's looming presence and his unscheduled groans of disapproval.

"Look here. Your Fecundity, Laird Pallid." began Becil, the slightly redder, burlier, and more verbal of the brothers,

"Lord Paladinson will suffice," corrected the Open Lord gently.

"Look here. Laird Pallidson," Becil continued, "we've got a histrionical and advantageous bridge-that's sure. You've got a compounded interest in it-that's sure, too. And, if it comes to it. Your Feckless Personage is asked to cross our bridge whensoever that you as an individuality would like to do so, as would make us indeed felicitatiously happy. Really."